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Character of the Season
Frail in body but dangerously quick of mind, Nikandr is the sort of character who proves that curiosity can be just as perilous as any weapon. A necromancer, inventor, and problem-solver with more ambition than self-preservation, Niki approaches the world like a puzzle box begging to be opened, even when what’s inside has teeth. Blunt, dry-witted, fiercely independent, and carrying a history best left partially buried, he has a knack for making even failure feel fascinating. Whether he’s raising the dead, moving across Caido to King's End, or experiencing a hangover for the first time, Nikandr brings a wonderfully strange spark to Caido, and we can’t wait to see what trouble his brilliant mind wanders into next.
Congratulations, Niki!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
OG Skinning provided by Kaons, with functionality and many custom plugins made by Neowulf!
The Sword tended to do much the same in strategy – honed from times of rampant bloodshed, peril, and war. But where this wasn’t the main focus, he wasn’t so streamlined towards menace or routine parameters – these were testing motions and movements, analyzing pitfalls and tactics amidst incantations. They’d be able to find weaknesses and flaws in enchantments or fortune, as it were.
So he watched as the quaking earth didn’t cause as much of a fumble or stumble as he would’ve liked; pondering if it was his depths of potency, the gloves, or a mixture of properties. He didn’t give much to the sharp laugh, though he didn’t expect it either, arching a brow as the fire was driven towards him –
Which of course, he amplified with a quiet, almost unnoticeable smirk, snagging and taking hold of the Mastered domains of the flames as though he too were born to it – and cast it back in return; a volley of infernal elements.
i think i'm the devil in disguise, here's my state of mind
It is no surprise when the fire is wielded exactly the way Asta utilizes it — a mastery that he personally prides himself on, meeting Deimos’ exquisite utilization of the burning power. It weaves and curls, and with it the steady ground beneath him. He tries to craft a wall of it, to hide his movements behind the brilliant flame, aiming to try and crouch and sneak closer to the Sword in the attempt.
He doesn’t anticipate that it will go well, but there’s no harm in trying. At the very least he can’t burn. His clothes can, but the man beneath them would survive, rising amongst the flames.
The fire itself casts a flickering shadow on the volcanic earth, and should Asta get close enough, he’ll keep that fire wall up as much as he can, aiming to strike out with the blunt edge of the cane against the Sword’s ankles.
give me destruction, tell me i'm scrumptious i'm a fucking delight
The wall made him snicker; as it was a frequent tactic he utilized. But rather than snag at the inferno again, he simply reeled and contorted in the opposing element – believing, in his notions and understanding of the Ancients, this one would be a little more difficult to tolerate.
While he could’ve gone for ice, that felt a little too cruel given the circumstances, and so he implemented a sudden deluge of chilling water along Astaroth’s planned orchestration, intending to whittle it down to nothing entirely – leaving the butcher quite visible and tangible.
To which Deimos tilted his head and unfurled another wave, solely for the cane wielder.
i think i'm the devil in disguise, here's my state of mind
The butcher is very lucky that Deimos doesn’t choose to utilize ice magic against him – even if the water that suddenly douses the flame is really fucking cold. He can feel the splash of it as it leaves naught more than steam behind where his wall of fire had been, revealing the butcher crouched behind, knife from his leg in hand and the cane absolutely nowhere near where he’d hoped it would be.
“Fuck,” comes the curse, without all the formality, without all the proper tones leaving his lips. Instead, just a thicker Whitebrim accent left behind on the edge of snarl as he’s soaked with enough force of the chill that he’s losing his balance, stumbling back onto his ass as his tail whips with frustration. Not at Deimos or his ability to master the magic, but at himself for being so predictable.
It's this moment that has him wondering whether or not he should refrain from utilizing the bloodbane, if he’s already looking like a drowned rat with the way the water crests over him, ruffling and dampening his clothes and wetting the volcanic earth beneath him. If nothing else, he can explain to Danta after, right?
“Apologies in advance.” He drawls when he finally gets a chance to breathe, because while it likely wouldn’t cause too much damage to Deimos – it was a direct attack at lessening the brunt of everything (and perhaps making him feel a bit better about the fact he’s soaked and likely has a bruised tailbone), hoping he might lessen up on the water magic. The knife begins to move, carving a red, bloodied line into the smooth skin of his inner forearm – blending and melting away into the water that continues to streak as the bloodbane is utilized with a quiet hiss and a clench of sharp teeth.
Magic: Bloodbane | Can injure themselves for mastered damage to weaken others at a 1.5x their mastered level with a range of 30ft.
Type: Dark | Rank: Mastered
give me destruction, tell me i'm scrumptious i'm a fucking delight
Apparently the unspoken truce of ‘not too damaging’ was soon off the table; the apology had him furrowing his brow, before the onslaught of pain came. Nowhere directly and nothing to fend off, it bolstered down into his ribs and out through his bones in such a bizarre juxtaposition he had to wonder if it was somewhat like his own life drain; though without the achingly familiar weight and potency of it.
He stepped and shifted, glancing down at the floor to see if he’d missed something tangible – but with no means of defense to guard against it, and the onslaught of blood he hadn’t caused upon the Ancient, he began putting two and two together. “What was that?” Because he hadn’t particularly cared for it.
And to Astaroth’s luck, the water did go away, but Deimos replaced it with a rampage of Air magic, finally opting to get serious about the return of the gloves; a vicious whirling of wind and turbine forces, intending to pluck the adornments off the Ancient.
i think i'm the devil in disguise, here's my state of mind
It was something that admittedly wasn’t pleasant for either of them, but one that he hoped would work to keep the water from drowning him. Luckily, it works, even if he hadn’t really intended to cause as much damage as it looks like he has. The wound on his arm hasn’t clotted just yet, not as Deimos steps back and the water stops, dripping from his body and horns, along the lines of his arms where the blood continues to pour as he places the back of his other forearm against it – cautious enough in this training to not get blood on the gloves that Deimos is trying to get back.
“Bloodbane.” He hums toward the hybrid, flashing a sharp smile that’s tinged with a touch of pain as the air incantations hit him tenfold. Clothes ruffling, hair absolutely more fucked up than it had been, the gloves slide off with ease like a parent tugging socks off their children’s feet for bedtime. Huffing a sound as his tail whips up to try and snatch them back as they slip, the wind is too strong against him to do much of, well, anything.
At least his hands are free enough to press against the wound to staunch the bleeding as he braces against the gusts and tempests.
give me destruction, tell me i'm scrumptious i'm a fucking delight
Only on rare occasions had the Sword ever delved into injuring himself to prolong a wound on another; sacrificial aims and gains layered in other notations. To do so here and now, with nothing to lose or obtain, seemed all the more bizarre to him. But he wasn’t an Ancient; perhaps it was embedded in their layers of chaotic semblances to simply disentangle by any means necessary. So he nodded at the name, committing it to memory, and deciding to ask Kiada about it later.
Despite all those actions, in the tumbling of wind and air, the gloves made their way back to him, perfected control and ease shifting into his grasp – and a sigh varnished through his chest. It could’ve been relief – the achievement snagged, or just the comfort of them back in his command.
Staring back at Astaroth, and his current ailments, he shook his head. “You probably did not need to go that far,” presuming their practice was over, and creating bandages between his hands, before beginning to pass them over to the Ancient.
i think i'm the devil in disguise, here's my state of mind
It may not necessarily be an Ancient train of thought – but it is one that is Astaroth’s train of thought. The butcher was used to dismantling himself in certain ways to bring others down around him, and while it hadn’t had a huge effect on the Sword, it was very clear that Deimos wasn’t like those Astaroth usually tangoed with. One swipe of bloodbane from him to a particularly nasty patron in the Dusklight and it dealt a feasible amount of damage. It kept people in line.
As the wind dissipates, though, Astaroth focuses on sitting a bit more upright against the watery volcanic earth, letting the ash meld into the dark pants he already wears as he focuses on trying to get his wound to clot before anything else. “I thought it was a nice touch.” Astaroth drawls with a huff of a laugh before he rolls his eyes and shakes his horned head, blinking up at the Sword when the bandages are offered and flashes a sharp smile of gratitude. “Aside from fire, the only other magic I harbor despite the bloodbane was not going to do much, if anything, against your mastery.” Compliments given, he peels back his bloodied hand enough to spark fire and coat his entire hand with it before pressing it to the wound, working to clean it up first before he bandages it.
give me destruction, tell me i'm scrumptious i'm a fucking delight
There were multitudes of ways to hold people in line – but Deimos had no need to express those thoughts or meander into someone else’s business. At the line, he merely shrugged and snorted, manifesting and creating more bandages until there were enough at Astaroth’s disposal to staunch the bleeding. “In time, then,” to humor the Ancient; given the parameters of how Caido worked and operated. With enough seasons and years of prolonged exposure and practice, most grew in exponential ways. “Should be enough for today anyway. Thank you for the assistance.” He waved his gloves in response; and then assisted as best he could – he certainly was no mender or healer – before they could both hasten away to their next denizens and purposes.
